by Hadley Finn
“I’m Sean O’Ryan. I need to grab Clara Dugas for her mom, please.”
The secretary flips through paper and studies me. She’s duly suspicious. Single mothers don’t just allow men to pick up their daughters at school.
“I don’t have any authorization for that.”
“Would you ask your principal, please? I’m on the list and I believe Sirona contacted her earlier explaining the unusual circumstances.”
The secretary huffs and expresses her annoyance at my not accepting her decision as the final authority. “Mrs. Crappell, there’s a man here trying to check out a student without proper documentation.” A pause, then, “Clara Dugas.” She pauses to listen and continues, “But he… yes, O’Ryan. Okay then.” She hangs up and her countenance changes from annoyed to sinister, but she smiles and extends a hand for me to sit. “I’ll grab Clara. Please take a seat.”
I don’t sit. I have enough of that in my future, but nor do I pace. I stand still; years of discipline have perfected that trait.
After more than five minutes, she returns with Clara, who smiles hugely.
“Want to go for a ride?”
“Ahem,” a throat clears behind me. “You’ll need to sign these release papers first.”
“Sure thing, Miss…”
“Mrs. Jefferson.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Jefferson.” I lean over the desk and sign each one and reach my hand out for Clara’s. When her little cold one slides into my big warm one, I know this is the right decision.
“Come on, precious girl.”
And she does.
Twenty-Seven
Louis Armstrong International airport is a clusterfuck. Tomorrow will be the busiest travel day of the year and I give thanks that this all went down last night and not tonight. Today is a cluster; tomorrow would’ve been a disaster.
Clara and I park the rental in the west garage and make our way to the Benz on the second floor to retrieve our luggage. Sirona took a large one. I have three of hers and mine too, as well as our carry-ons. As I walk to the terminal, Clara rides the suitcase dolly as if she’s Kate Winslet in Titanic. This works for me. She’s light as a feather but four suitcases and a child require skills only a mom has. And that’s before the very impressive bruise to my ribcage and it’s correlating pain.
We drop our suitcases outside with the service and smile and wave at them as we head to security and the terminal.
The biggest hiccup is the restroom situation. I pride myself on having thought through all the little snags we could’ve run into but I failed to consider this. Luckily, the family restroom, gross though it may be, allows me not to take her with me into the men’s room or send her alone into the women’s. Snag number two, wipes. Must do better. I clean the toilet while she dances and then I turn and face the door while she does her thing. How did I not think of this?
I assume we only have another ten of those and just count down—one down, nine to go.
Hands washed and dried, backpack back in place, we head out toward security.
“Got anything in that bag we need to throw away?” I tilt my head at her Frozen backpack.
“Like what, Poppa?”
“Bottle of water? A sword? A live animal?”
She giggles and yet again shakes her head so hard, those pigtails whip her face.
“Okay then. I just don’t want to get arrested for your contraband.”
“What’s contra bad?”
“It means illegal stuff, like things you want to smuggle. Like a pirate.”
“I’m not a pirate, Poppa Sean.”
This conversation gets us all the way to the ticketing agent, who checks my passport and Clara’s and our boarding passes. He’s not very good. Hers is so very fake, but I guess being underpaid also correlates to under-caring so we make it right through.
I finger the knife in my pocket one last time. This knife has stabbed men and sliced throats. It has seen vengeance and justice, but never been out of my sight since I was eighteen. I’m not sad to see it go, though it has been with me for almost two decades, ever since I decided the course of my life. If I were more sentimental, I’d have found a way to keep it. Instead, this is as good a place as any to drop a murder weapon. Knives are confiscated anyway and sold en masse to people who buy them by the pound later. I subtly wipe it down as best I can and grab it with my sweatshirt to drop it in the garbage and follow it with a bottle of water and some gum.
“Sure you don’t have a live animal?” I joke with Clara.
“No, silly!”
That is all it takes. My smile breaks across my face wide and I chuckle.
This is what I needed, what I’ve needed for so, so long.
Our carry-on bags make it through the scanner, and we’re home free as we head to New York. Fastest way out of New Orleans was this morning through Newark. Fastest flights tonight are through LaGuardia.
Clara and I sit in the terminal and download movies onto the new iPad and sync up the earbuds while charging the device as much as possible while we wait. Of course, Frozen is the first one we download. I insist on others but convincing her to try them will be my hardest task today.
We board our first-class seats and take off for New York. It’s Clara’s first flight and we’re lucky enough to have extra time before our next leg that Clara gets to see the cockpit and gets a wings pin. She’s absolutely smitten and now has a new topic to talk about without taking a breath.
I give her a little Benadryl when we’re wheels up to Dublin. Not because she’s not one of my three favorite people on the planet but because she’s going to need a little sleep. We’ll arrive early morning and have a heck of a drive. I need her as rested as possible.
I rest too. No sleep last night makes it easy. I wake two hours before wheels down with my hip being used as a pillow and a little hand holding mine. She must’ve woken during the night and resituated. I stay as still as possible, fully awake, soaking in this moment. Everything will change. Everything is changing, but this moment will be sealed in my memory as perfect.
Wheels down in Dublin means customs but we get through it quickly and grab our rental car. I’m glad I bought and packed the little red coat from Target. It’s a bit too big, but Ireland in November is as different from New Orleans as you can get. She mentions this. Repeatedly.
“I’m cold.”
“I’ll get the heater going and then we’ll go meet your mom.”
“How long until we get to her?”
“Almost two Frozens. Want to grab the iPad and get it started for us?”
“Okay, Poppa! But I’m hungry!”
Shit! I forgot! “We’ll grab breakfast and then go to your mom, but you might need to channel your inner Elsa because it’s cold here in Ireland.”
“I can do that.”
We find a little grocery shop with fresh breads and cheeses, fresh scones, and some local pastries. We run in, channeling our inner Anna and Elsa. I’ve been named Anna to Clara’s Elsa. I agree because I have no clue what she’s talking about, even though I’ve seen the movie twice now. It’s not half-bad, actually.
We get back on the road and start the movie again. I drink my coffee and don’t ask her to put in AirPods. I listen along and try to sing, badly, for which I am admonished and laughed at. I’ll take that too.
A couple of hours later, we pull up the drive I haven’t seen in eight months. It looks no different than it did then. But where the driveway used to dead end into the cottage, it now splits. I take the right fork and continue around to the house I had built after meeting Killian, knowing I’d need an exit strategy at some point. A strategy that gave me peace and quiet and space. I planned a little three-bedroom house that I’m guessing now will be almost too small, but those are problems for another day.
Sirona is at the end of the driveway at the garage, standing and waving. Killian stands by her side, amusement lighting up his face. We honk and wave and make silly faces, and I see the tears of relief on her face as w
e come to a stop.
“She’s in the front seat? With no car seat? Sean!” Might as well be one giant run-on sentence with “Clara! It’s Ireland. What do you think? How was the plane? I missed you! Did you have fun?”
I want to say there are no airbags and she’s sitting two feet away and the same laws don’t apply here, but instead I let mother and daughter hug while I give Killian a hand shake and a slap on the back.
“How ya doin’, lad? Never mind. Better than las’ time, I see.” He nods at Sirona and grins.
Twenty-Eight
“We don’t have a turkey.” Sirona stands in the new kitchen staring at the barren refrigerator and the empty pantry.
“This is true.” What else do you say? We don’t have a turkey.
“What are we going to do?”
“Um, eat something else?” This is the all wrong answer.
“It’s Thanksgiving!”
“Ah.”
The replying stare means that, too, is the wrong answer.
“Ah? That’s what you’ve got to say?” Her hands fly to her hips and her eyebrows tell me that she expects a response.
“You’re cute when you’re all fired up. You know that?”
Her harrumph is accompanied by her eyes bugging and her arms flailing. No other sound comes out.
I laugh. I shouldn’t but I do, because seriously, she’s cute like this.
“I… But…” she sputters.
“What do you need?”
“Turkey!”
I laugh again. Her eyes slit and I laugh again.
“Okay, sweetheart. Turkey and what? I can go to the store. I can’t promise to find everything but I’ll look.”
“But it’s not ready and it’ll be too late when you get home.”
Aside from her sadness, I smile because ‘home’ on her lips is nice.
“Let’s see what we can do. Want me to get on my way and you can text me a list or want me to wait while you write one out?”
“But we don’t have anything.” She’s swinging the doors wide and pulling the drawers out to their full extension.
“Sirona? You know that toughness you’ve shown the whole time I’ve known you?”
She nods.
“Channel it for a second. How do we make this what you need? “
“A chicken, some potatoes, sweet potatoes and salad fixin’s.”
“On it.”
I lean down, kiss her cheek, and head for the garage. I dial Killian along the way. His old house phone ringing and ringing and ringing until I get a begrudging, “Aye.”
“Killian. We’re going to have some semblance of an American Thanksgiving. Hoping you’ll join us. Also hoping you have a chicken or, better yet, a turkey in your freezer.”
“I have lamb in the freezer and pudding leftover in the fridge.”
“Then where’s the closest grocery store?”
“Tesco down the hill. Make a left going away from Galway.”
“Thanks! See you tonight?
“Aye.” His click must be goodbye.
Upon my return, I’m greeted by Clara first and foremost.
“Poppa Sean, I’m starving!”
“Help me with the bags?”
Good try but she gives up after two trips and heads back into the house to play a game on her iPad. I owned it for about six hours; she’s claimed it since.
We settle into Irish life with a mostly American meal and spend the next couple of days trying to figure out how we’re going to live with all the chaos we just created.
Twenty-Nine
“Mommy, I miss home.”
It’s the sniffles accompanying her statement that break my heart as I eavesdrop from the hall.
“I’m sorry, baby. But this place is great too, right?”
More sniffles follow. “I want to go home.”
“I miss home, too, baby.”
This is degenerating quickly. I slide into the room and see Sirona’s desperate look and Clara’s red eyes. My heart can barely take it. Bedtime has gotten harder with each night we’ve been here. The cold, the wind, the utter absence of city noises…
“Beautiful girl?”
“Yeah, Poppa?”
“Will you tell me everything you miss about New Orleans?”
Sirona throws me a wary look. She knows I can’t fix this.
A sleepy nod is Clara’s response.
I sit down with my back against the headboard and cross my arms over my lap. Clara rolls toward me and grabs one hand, holding it with her tiny one.
She’s snuggled into my side and her eyes flutter open and closed as she begins. “I miss Sarah. I miss my class. I miss Miss Lowda. I miss my dolls. I miss my room.” The time between her sentences gets longer as her voice gets quieter and speech gets less clear. “I miss petty foors. I miss Mommy’s shop. I miss pink cupcakes.”
I raise my eyes to Sirona, seated at the foot of the bed, and give her a smile.
Just when we both suspect that Clara is fast asleep, she mumbles sleepily, “I want a puppy, Poppa.”
I stifle my laugh. This little girl has me wrapped around her little fingers and, if I’m not mistaken, she just played me to get a dog.
“Sweet dreams, precious girl.”
I wait until Clara’s arm and hand go heavy and her mouth pops open in its little “O” before gently sliding out from next to her and going to Sirona.
I offer my hand and she accepts. We make our way to the door, as if we’ve co-parented for years instead of days, and flip the lights off as we head for the kitchen.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” She looks confused.
“Well,” I draw out the word. “Do we get a dog?”
“There are a thousand ways to answer that, but the simple one is no.”
“What are the other nine hundred and ninety-nine?” I love pushing her buttons and challenging her does just that.
“They include: She’s playing you. We have lived here a week and don’t know where we’re going from here. Dogs are a lot of work, and Seriously?”
I step closer to her and drop my head to stare into her eyes. “I have no idea how much work they are. I haven’t had one since I was a kid and I didn’t do much of anything to help out. I know it’s been a week but we’re here for the long haul and we’re all home, all the time.”
She just stares back, nervous and a little defiant. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to be challenged when it comes to her daughter and how she makes decisions.
“And, sweetheart?”
She blinks and nods.
“I’m fully aware that she’s playing me.”
“Yeah?”
She licks her lips and drops her eyes to my mouth.
Fuck. I lean a bit closer and whisper, “Yeah.”
At the last minute, I move my lips to her ear and whisper, “And I think you should start baking again. For Clara, of course.” My chuckle brings goosebumps to her arms.
I lean back. “Get me a list of what you need—ingredients, utensils, bowls, etc. and I’ll get it ordered. This house needs more pink desserts.”
I head to my office, leaving her standing in the hallway.
The next morning, I smell coffee brewing and hear feminine voices in the kitchen. When I make my way to the kitchen, I’m met with a gray morning, but the sun peeking through the clouds tries to burn off the morning fog. I’m also met with a sloshing mug of coffee that Clara is trying desperately to get to me quickly and without spilling a drop, a challenging combination.
I take it from her and thank her with a smile. I take a big gulp and about the moment the overly-sugared sludge hits my mouth, Clara says, “I made it for you all by myself, Poppa!” Sirona’s light snicker means she was in on it.
I force my throat to swallow the thick liquid sugar down and say, “Thank you, precious girl. It’s delicious.”
“Does it have enough sugar?”
Sirona’s body shakes with silent laughter with at Clara’s query.
I make my way to Sirona and spank her playfully on the butt. “Good morning to you.”
Her face is mottled red from trying so hard not to burst out with laughter.
“I owe you for the coffee.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she says, biting her lip to avoid laughing out loud.
“No, really.” I take another sip and turn to face out the window to swallow, working hard not to make a face. “I’m gonna need a warm-up,” I add while reaching for the coffeepot to dilute the coffee syrup.
“Want me to make it?” Exuberant Clara runs my way.
“Oh, love, I’ll have you show me how you make it tomorrow. Did you know you only get one perfect cup of coffee a day? It’s a rule or something.”
The whispered “Liar” next to me makes me smile.
“Clara, we’re going to Galway today to buy some supplies. Can you help your mom make a list of what we need to make pink cupcakes or pink petit fours?”
“I can do that!” She runs down the hall and Sirona smiles up at me.
“Playing you.”
“Enjoying every minute of it.”
I lean down and peck her on the lips and leave her smiling as I walk back to my room.
Showered and ready to go, I look at the list. Holy cow!
“Think we can fit all this in the car?”
One little, loud “Yes” is contradicted by a huskier “Doubtful.”
We take off for the city down the hill and find a baking supply shop in addition to a WalMart-type superstore. We find bowls, a stand mixer and a hand-held version, pastry cutters and spreaders and other utensils.
A trip to the grocery provides most of the ingredients we need. Sirona has specific opinions on brands and types of flours and sugar, among other things, but Irish butter being superior to all others—her words, not mine—there is a ray of hope in our haul.